


Brother's Choice

by Senket



Series: House Dynamics [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Domestic, Fluff, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:46:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants to keep John Watson for himself, forever- but he's not sure how, so he asks his best source on the subject: Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother's Choice

Sherlock was only eleven when he first asked Mycroft and Gregory if he could bring a friend home for Christmas break. Neither of them expected to get any time off work and they were sure a boy’s family wouldn’t like their son to go to a home run by two men early in their second decade. In a fit of anger at Mycroft’s refusal, Sherlock refused to come home at all. They both showed up on Christmas morning just to spite him- on Dumbledore’s invitation, of course. Sherlock threw a tantrum when he saw them and refused to stop until Greg threw him over his shoulder. The day was pleasant enough. They spent the afternoon outside, Mycroft watching while Greg and Sherlock pelted each other with snowballs. After a warming dinner, they retired to the library for the evening, the pair huddled close to the fire playing exploding snap while Mycroft read.

The boy asked again when he was twelve. Mycroft agreed, because if he really had to he could arrange for him and Greg to have shifts at different times. Enough people would agree to pick up holiday shifts for him; some that didn’t even owe him a favour. The other boy’s parents, however, refused. Sherlock came over to spend break with them and all three of them visited Mummy on Christmas Eve. Sherlock sulked whenever he was at home, but he was more than gleeful when Mycroft deigned to experiment with him, or when Greg took him out in Muggle London.

In Sherlock’s third year, he didn't ask for a thing- he imply refused to come home. When Greg and Mycroft visited Hogwarts on the twenty-fifth, they met a short, stocky boy with sun-bleached blonde hair and calluses all over his hands. His name was John Watson, he was a Hufflepuff, and he and Greg talked about Quidditch for a solid hour whilst Sherlock and Mycroft looked on with looks of mingled bewilderment. Disappointingly, Greg discovered he could no longer throw Sherlock over his shoulder, the teenager having rapidly grown tall, lanky and awkward away from their watchful eyes.

When Sherlock was fourteen he asked again. Greg was a senior auror by that point, so he didn’t really have steady shifts at all, but he could manage. Mycroft had risen in the ranks farther than Greg knew and could do nearly anything. They agreed, and John’s parents agreed- but only between the twenty-sixth and the New Year. Sherlock kept wavering between excited ecstasy and a resigned sulk. 

On the twenty-third, Sherlock burst into their bedroom at six in the morning, when Mycroft was reading the newspaper and Greg was still drowsing, his nose pressed into Mycroft’s side. (Not that the deadbolt was gone, but why bother locking it? Sherlock got past it anyway.) He stared for a moment- stared at Greg with a hard frown, trying to see if the young man was conscious enough to pay attention to what was being said. When he looked up at Mycroft, his older brother met his eye with an indulgent smile and raised eyebrows. “Something the matter, Sherlock?”

The boy shrugged, staring balefully through his messy curls. Mycroft folded the newspaper away, inclining his head towards the mattress. Sherlock moved slowly, taking cautious steps as he crept closer, sitting near Mycroft’s leg and staring at his hands (long, now, white but covered in discolourations from potions ingredients.) Mycroft, head cocked to the side, merely waited. Eventually, Sherlock started to speak. “It’s. About John.”

“And?”

“Well.” He shot a furtive glance at Greg again, chewing his lip for a moment. “There’s this girl. Hufflepuff. The year above us, and he keeps getting distracted by her and- he’s mine!” 

In the short time it took him to expel his little speech, Sherlock’s cheeks had turned a blotchy red. Mycroft restrained a laugh. “There there. John’s allowed to have other friends. Greg was still friends with Beatrice .”

“I don’t think he wants to be _friends_ with her.” Mycroft smiled at the vehemence in Sherlock’s voice. They were surprisingly alike sometimes. They sat in silence for a while, Mycroft waiting while Sherlock worked through whatever he was trying to get out. “How do I keep him?”

“Sherlock?”

He looked morose now, glaring at Mycroft through his fringe. “You got Gregory. I know you know how, don’t treat me like a child. Tell me how.”

He did laugh, that time. Insulted, Sherlock tried to storm off, but Mycroft arrested him with a soft hand on his arm. The adolescent froze, turning to face him properly. “You can get rid of obstacles, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a kind smile, touching the boy’s cheek with his thumb briefly, “but you must always leave the choice up to John. If you try to force him, if you try to trick him, he’ll leave.”

“But what if he leaves anyway?” he sniped back, stomping his foot.

“In this case, an uncertainty is better than fact.”

Sherlock would’ve said he wasn’t sulking, but he was. And so magnificently. “That’s no good at all.”

“It’s the best you get. Now go on, go make some breakfast, would you?”

“No. I’m going to go study my mandrake.”

“If you like.” Mycroft was smiling as he watched the boy leave.

The door shut with a snick. Mycroft glanced down at his side, tenderly running his fingers through Greg’s dark, bristly hair. The cut was severe, particularly compared to the long, messy fringe he had at school, and it wasn’t nearly as nice to rub between his thumb and forefinger, but it made it easier to see Greg’s warm eyes and warmer smile, and for that he would never complain. Bending down, he pressed a light kiss to the man’s shoulder, lingering for a moment against warm skin. “Charlie Mayforth.” Mycroft froze at the unexpected voice, withdrawing slowly to stare down at his lover. Greg’s lips quirked into a smirk as he propped himself up on his arm, staring up at Mycroft through his lashes. “That was you. _You_ recommended him to Scamander.”

“And what if I did,” he answered protectively, feeling guilty. This was exactly what he meant when he said he’d always get caught. Greg had bullied his way straight past his defences so thoroughly and effortlessly that they no longer even rose around the other man anymore.

Eyes widening, the auror barked a laugh. “You sneaky little bastard!”

“Greg...” he started, not completely sure how he was going to explain that he’d purposefully deported Greg’s crush to a new continent just to get them away from each other.

“Shut up.” Mycroft jerked in surprise, shoulders rising defensively, sinking into his pillows. Greg grinned cheekily. Under the covers, Greg’s clever fingers traced loops, slowly climbing their way up Mycroft’s bare thigh. Teeth skimmed the soft skin on Mycroft’s neck, Greg’s tongue flashing out to taste warm flesh. “I’m going to fuck you right now and you best just accept it.”

Mycroft laughed, relieved, surprised, interested. Greg flashed a predatory grin, pressing his lover down into their mattress.


End file.
